


Scherzando

by LydiaOLydia



Category: Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, First Time, Fluff, One Shot, always snuggling, jane austen invented friends to lovers, what an icon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOLydia/pseuds/LydiaOLydia
Summary: Scherzando - in a playful manner.
Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse
Comments: 22
Kudos: 281





	Scherzando

**Author's Note:**

> I have not given up on all my many, many WIPs. This has been sitting in my notebook for over a year and I finally decided to post it with some polishing up. It is mostly inspired by the Romola Garai and Jonny Lee Miller version because I feel they have the best Emma/Knightley chemistry, but I don't think there's any reason it wouldn't work for most versions.
> 
> Just a bit of fluff in honor of the new Emma movie coming out.
> 
> Also, still definitely an American and I'm sure some Americanisms have crept in. Just stating that right now ;-)

Emma stirred in her marital bed, decidedly missish and ill at ease. Worse, she was aggrieved for feeling so. Had she not been looking forward to this day, to this moment with great eagerness? She and Mr. Knightley had been chaperoned during their engagement. So, very, very well chaperoned. For two such as they who had know each other most of their lives, it was astonishing the lack of privacy they were granted.

Maybe not astonishing. There had been a few quick kisses, a caress or two, but they did nothing that might endanger them anticipating their wedding vows.

Now they had said their vows before God and man. There had been time to bid goodbye to family and friends. It was a matter of hours after the ceremony. They had arrived at an inn, run by the kind and gentlewomanly Mrs. Shrewsbury. Emma had never stayed at an inn before because of her father’s fear of contagion. She spent much of the evening wondering at the variety of people and objects of interest.

Mrs. Shrewsbury had arranged a comfortable private room for them to dine. They were brought cold meats and a variety of cheeses. Emma had excused herself to prepare for bed (with the capable assistance of Joan, Mrs. Shrewsbury's private maid).

Now there was nothing to do but wait for Mr. Knightley to come to their well-appointed chambers. The room could not have been more elegant if she had chosen every item herself. Yet she rearranged the bedclothes and her nightgown again, skin tingling as if she was wearing coarse wool instead of finely spun linen.

They were now but thirty miles from the sea. Emma was almost convinced even now she could hear the gentle susurrus of the waves. All was as it should be, but her mind would not settle. She had spent her entire life surrounded by farmland and animals. She was not exactly ignorant of country matters, although it was considered feminine and elegant to be so.

Mrs. Weston had taken her aside before the wedding and given her further assurance there was nothing to fear, but marital relations were so far removed from Emma’s sphere of experience, she could not help but experience a little trepidation.

Where in heaven was he?

The door opened and shut with a light click. All she could make out was an outline standing in the dark.

She raised her arm in warning. “No, wait there.”

He paused, still at the door.

“Don’t say anything, please. I wish to say on this night as the whole of our marriage, I will be guided by you, beloved husband.” She folded her hands demurely over the bed linens.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I appear to have lost my way in the corridor. I am seeking the bedchamber of Mrs. Emma Knightley.”

“You dreadful man.” She threw a pillow at him, but she was laughing and so was he.

He walked closer to the bed, steady but light on his feet, and settled next to her. In the darkness she could make out his faint but familiar profile. “I may exceed you in experience, but I abhor the idea of doing anything that could do you discomfort or injury. I will be guided by you and your needs and wishes. Here, in this place, we are partners.” He laced his fingers through hers.

To have him near her, to inhale his clean scent, and hear his sweet kind voice was all she could have wished.

“Mr-”

He placed his index finger gently to her mouth. “Knightley or George, please.” His eyes held a look of gentle attentiveness and his touch on her lips provided a hitherto unknown sensation.

"George," she whispered softly.

"Emma," he whispered back, lips already on hers.

***

George Knightley, post coitus, was the very picture of supreme male satisfaction. Emma tilted her head. Did he not appear even a trifle. . . smug?

“You look as if you’ve achieved something remarkable.”

“Have I not then?” He let his fingertips drift gently lower and then lower till she started tremble.

He stilled his movements. “Are you well, Emma?”

She smiled at him. “Well, thank you.” 

In all truth, it had hurt a bit, but he was so solicitous, so careful of her feelings and her desires that she felt nothing but pleased. There were certain actions he had taken with well, with his mouth to ease her way and that part was remarkable. There was no other way to describe it. Her skin flushed again thinking of it.

“Darling?" She said, trying the word out. 

"Mmm," came a sleepy response. 

"The one motion," she twisted her fingers together, "the one you did with your, um, tongue. You didn't learn that in Highbury." She let her words hang in the air suggestively.

He shook his head. “Mrs. Knightley, you astonish me. A gentleman never discloses such information.”

“Then I shall be forced to imagine your past filled with opera dancers and ligthskirts. Scores of them. Nay, dozens.” She batted her eyelashes to show she was teasing him.

“There may have been one or two discreet widows in my youth. When I visited London,” he elaborated. “And as a much younger man, I once fancied myself much in love with a young lady.”

“What happened?”

“We met during the London season when I was visiting John and Isabel. Her family was situated in Cornwall. She had no wish to be parted from them. I would not leave Donwell Abbey and all who were enshrined in my heart. She thanked me most kindly for my attentions, saying it grieved her to cause me pain, but it was not to be.”

“She refused you?” She sat up in bed. “Wretched creature. What is her name? Where is she? Tell me at this instant!”

He laughed, a low delighted sound. “It is not important. Not in the slightest.”

She frowned. “You are afraid to tell me.”

“You are a formidable woman and although I harbor no deep affection for her, I do not wish her to end with a scratched face or you in the gaol.”

“Very sensible, I’m sure.” Emma gave him a pleading look she knew was hard for him to refuse.

He sighed. "She is settled in Newquay, happily married to a country squire with a sizable brood of children.”

She gave a small huff. “I would not want to make orphans of young children or a widower of such a respectable gentleman. She shall continue unmolested. Although it grieves me to think I could not comfort you in your time of distress, not even as a friend.”

“It was such a long time ago, it is half-forgotten. Truthfully, there has not been any paramour or other lady of special interest in my life for some time. Being here in my own sphere, visiting you at Hartfield, gave me such joy, I had no wish to seek out more for myself. Until recently.”

She had seen Knightley in his shirtsleeves before and she had gained the impression he was clean-limbed with wiry strength, but to be here with him, flesh to flesh was something else entirely. In the moonlight, they were in a world of black and white and gray, but she felt they could be in a blossoming field in springtime. Is this what the flowery, whimsical poets meant when they talked of love?

“I had not anticipated so much hair.” She ran her fingers down his chest, enjoying the roughness of it and the quick inhale of his breath. 

“It displeases you?”

“Not at all. It’s not what I imagined.”

“So you imagined this? Us together here.”

“A lady never discusses such things!”

“She turns my own words against me.” Knightley pressed his hand to his heart in mock horror.

Emma arched one perfect eyebrow in amusement. “Fine. Yes. One or two times after our engagement, I did wonder about the marital bed.” She felt her cheeks pinken.

“With anticipation or dread?”

“The two intermingled.” She paused. She was a mature, married woman now, beyond the vexations of curiosity and gossip. Somehow the words tumbled out of her anyway. “And you?”

“There was a time, a rainy dreary April afternoon about two years ago. Your father was giving us his thoughts on miasmas. You fell asleep and your head dropped onto my shoulder. I thought briefly, ‘I could kiss her awake like a fairy tale princess.’ Then I was most heartily ashamed of myself.”

She gave a tiny, feminine shrug. “It was not such a scandalous thought. I expected something much more shocking.”

“I had viewed myself as someone to protect you. Dearest Emma, you may not be the first woman to share my bed, but I most ardently wish you to be the last. You are after all, the only woman who has ever captured my heart.” So saying, he kissed the tips of her fingers until she gave a little sigh of contentment. 

They slept, she knew not how long. When she jolted awake again, the moon had set completely and there was full darkness. A strange unease set upon her. She was married and farther from home than she’d ever been before. She should be transformed, but she wasn’t. Not truly.

She turned and stared at the dark shape beside her, familiar and somehow not. Knightley was asleep. He might as well have been in the Antipodes for all she could reach him. Then a large, warm hand settled on a very personal part of her person. Not so asleep after all. 

“You’re thinking loudly. You woke me up.” 

“I should be different, but I’m not.” She frowned a little and didn’t speak. She knew he would understand without any further elaboration.

“You’re everything you need to be at this time and what you will become, what we will become together, only time can tell.” Something, no someone, began to tug at her nightgown, drawing it upward.

“Again?” She said, trying her best to sound scandalized, but secretly delighted.

“Yes, but this time, I should like you astride me.” He murmured into her ear.

Emma’s eyes widened. “Surely that is not possible.”

“I assure you. Not only is it possible, but it is often very enjoyable for the lady.”

He shifted her onto his lap and began to kiss her and she had to agree, once again, dear Knightley was right.

**Author's Note:**

> Will I write snuggly, plotless fluff for all my favorite pairings? Probably.


End file.
